Celebrating the beauty of God's grace

I’d just settled on the couch with a soothing cup of coffee, awakening to a new day.

My husband came in and switched on the television, intending to check the weather. A horrible news story flashed across the screen. Detailed video showed a home exploding with fire and destruction, the family possibly still inside.

I set down my coffee and trounced out of the family room. I wanted to run to the hills and live in a cave, safe from violence and intrusive technology. I vowed not to turn on the TV or my computer all day.

Because of my vow, I couldn’t vent my frustration via social media, emails, or text messages. So I unplugged.

Instead, I made a strawberry pie.

I picked up the all the fixings at the grocery store and practically danced as I lifted two quarts of fragrant strawberries into my basket, alongside real butter and pure vanilla.

On arriving back home, I skimmed over the recipe and gathered the necessary ingredients. As I uncapped a bottle of ground cinnamon, a sweet, exotic aroma reminded me of the warm muffins I’d baked for my kids when they were little.

When I measured a cup of flour, a soft, snowy cloud drifted into the air. Sugar added grainy texture to the mix. A tiny measure of dark vanilla had a potent whiff and a tentative taste reminded me of my mother’s buttercream frosting.

I melted butter in a pan until it sizzled. I removed it from the flame and let it cool, then added milk. I sliced a lemon in half, releasing its zesty, fresh fragrance into the kitchen. The smooth rind folded in my hand as I squeezed juice into the mix and felt a trickle flow between my fingers.

I rinsed the ruby-red berries and let the cool water flow over my hands. Memories of a childhood friend and a Sunday afternoon spent eating ice cream and strawberries (fresh from her Mom’s garden) came to me.

The crumb topping called for hand mixing. With clean hands I dove in, squeezing the creamy softness of the butter through my fingers and rolling it around in spiced flour.